


Come Meet Me

by aam5ever



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, Barely any dialogue, Fake AH Crew, story telling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aam5ever/pseuds/aam5ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come meet me at Motel 95. There's a man there... a man with a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Meet Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was a quick idea inspired by no-dialogue fics I've seen around.

Come meet me at Motel 95. There will be a man right outside it, nursing liquor and littered with tattoos. He's got tired eyes, but he won't tell me where he got them. Is it from old age, or what he's seen? Genetics or his past? You and I, at Motel 95, will find out his story.

  


He'll ask for money. Beg and plead, say that he'll get on his feet soon. He will paint a fake story. He'll say he had a wife and child, an unfair case, a run in, a burning house. He'll have a convincing story. The convincing one isn't the right one. You ask for the real one. He'll sigh and curse. And then, he'll repaint the tale with the hand that hurts. That's where all the memories lay.

  


Michael. Gavin. Ryan. Ray. Jack. His crew, his life, his story all depended on those five names. I'll ask for a description, he'd say it wouldn't matter. He could never describe them right, and trying to will dishonor them. He'd just get it all wrong.

  


You and I, at Motel 95, will urge him on. What happened? Too much. Are they okay? In Hell, maybe. What crew? The bad kind. They stole and blood shed and heads rolled and they laughed. The six enjoyed every part of it. The six cared only for their tightly knit group, and like that, they ruled that city better than any gang could. 

  


He'll remember the heists fondly, the close calls vividly, the voices sparingly. It mattered more what they did than what they said, anyways. He'll stumble over his words, interrupt himself with drinking from a half empty bottle that'll be done by the time we walk away with a story that could fill up an entire Alternate Universe. But it happened in our universe. If only we had visited this man before Motel 95.

  


That man will tell us about the fires they created, the families they destroyed. Gavin's idiocy, Michael's rage, Ray's preciseness, Jack's heart, and Ryan's lack of one. He was the leader of the crew, the finger that pointed out which guns to steal and which people would bleed. This man played God on the streets of Los Santos. On this very street of Motel 95.

  


You ask for the last heist. You ask for what brought him here. I stay behind, fold my arms, already knowing the story.

  


He wanted to tell someone the story. He wanted to let out what he had on his chest while he played the drunken fool. He wanted someone to question whether or not he was human for what he did, whether or not he was lying, whether or not he deserved an actual last heist or if he should've died in the middle of one. The last heist was the most grand of all... sirens being the chorus of the night, stars being blocked by the fire, screams of both terror and glee... he heard them all die, right over the ear piece. He heard the panicked calls of each name as one by one they were picked off. Michael was the last to go, the only member that regarded his elder with some sort of respect. He loved all of them, and to see every one of their bodies as he ran out of there was heartbreaking. He pushed the pedal on a stolen car so far that he swore he had broken it.

  


The man somberly recalls him tearing the mask off his face, bullet wounds that screamed to be attended to the least of his worries. Blue and red lights flashed behind him and his the tears that were welling up mushed them into a bright, royally ugly purple in the rearview mirror. Only when he finally lost the police did the man stop driving, which was near a cliff that hung over the ocean. He wishes he had taken the chance, let go of the wheel, and let that gas pedal take him over the edge in that stolen sports car.

  


You say he was lying. He wishes he was. He wishes he hadn't met them in the first place so he wouldn't experience the pain anymore, and so he wouldn't be called 'The Man at Motel 95'. You ask his name, and he doesn't answer, just like I suspected would happen. He then asks if you are done listening. I butt in and say no. The man smirks in a crooked, off way before shrugging and getting himself to his feet. 

  


He then said, "Well then watch the reruns of the news from May 23, five years ago." He shoves his empty liquor bottle into your grasp before starting to leave, saying, "That was the date of our last heist."

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: aam5ever


End file.
